


If I Don't Get Sex I'll Leave

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Sherlock is working on an experiment when he overhears John. What happens after ?





	If I Don't Get Sex I'll Leave

After a day at the clinic I'm only too glad to make my way up the steps to our flat. Halfway up I see Sherlock with a video camera in hand filming me.

          "Keep coming, John, ignore me, don't look at the camera." I comply wondering what he's studying now. I'm always the one he experiments on.

Walking up a tread at a time, moving slowly. I get closer to the top as he backs away, camera running.

At the entrance to the flat, I have no idea what to do now.

          " Measuring a person's motion against intent. How do you read a human by his body dynamics."

* * *

What can I do, what does he want? In a fit of joking, I gyrate my hips as if doing a sexy dance. 

          "That's good, that's enough for now. "

Sherlock puts the camera on the coffee table.

* * *

My jacket hung on the coat rack, he says, "Where's the food? Where did you leave it?"

          "Whoops, left it on the steps when I saw what you wanted," going down the few rungs to pick up the bag of Chinese.

          " I'm starved. What's that about, the camera?"

          "Studying body movements and yours is the easiest to do without going onto the streets and being arrested for intruding on privacy."

* * *

Dinner over, we sit and watch a cowboy movie that Sherlock wanted to see. John Wayne. 

He attacks every detail, all impracticable scenes, yelling at the screen. It's hilarious to me. He can't take a movie for what it is, fantasy. Every component has to be faultless.

* * *

I have an early morning shift, and I don't see Sherlock, either in the kitchen or the sitting room, so I assume he's in his bedroom. My jacket is on the coat rack, I grab it and text him I'll be home in the afternoon. 

* * *

A camera in my face as I walk up the steps, same as yesterday, and now I want to have fun with this, beginning by unzipping the jacket, one zip at a time. 

Unzipped fully, reaching the top of the stairs, the light jacket slithers off my arms and to the floor.

Pretending the camera is not on me I open the first button on my shirt, the second one falls open, looking down as I do this, with surprise on my face, as if it came apart all on its own.

All the while humming the stripper song.

* * *

Sherlock stops filming, entranced, and I continue to unbutton until my shirt is wide open. 

He's scrutinizing me, eyes wide in astonishment.

* * *

We've seen each other in various stages of undress, and he's plainly seen my chest before, I have no idea what's engaging him so.

Shrugging my shirt on one side laying further down my shoulder, then the other, undulating it off, dropping the shirt to the floor.

          "Enough, John, that's enough," clearing his throat, he turns away. 

* * *

I pick my shirt up and walk to my bedroom, with amusement. Did I rattle Sherlock?

I know I became rattled. My cock twitching, my brain going into sex mode. Shut it down, you fool! Save it for one of your lady friends. Of which there is none now.

* * *

Changing to my PJ bottoms and a t-shirt, mobile in hand, I'm on the steps to go downstairs when I get a phone call from Greg Lestrade.

* * *

Mobile at my ear, I advance into the kitchen to grab a bite to eat, setting it up, continuing to talk to Greg.

          "Got that now? That's the whole part of it. I would have liked it more with a change of pace, but you know how these things go. Yah, Greg, see you soon."

* * *

I know Sherlock listens to my phone calls and instead of keeping my privacy intact I've learned to let him hear me. He'll badger me otherwise.

* * *

The phone set on the kitchen counter, "Sherlock, I'm making some noodles for lunch, do you want?"

No answer, so I poke my head into the other room.

          "Did you hear me?"

No answer. Okay, must mean no.

* * *

Noodles are warmed up, and I can't sit at the table with all of Sherlock's science stuff on it, and I don't want to push anything out of the way.

* * *

My chair in the parlor had Sherlock's papers situated on it, annoying but used to his chaos spilling into all areas, I move them onto the floor by Sherlock's chair. 

Not responding to my annoyance, not even with a grunt.

He's also now using my laptop again.

Nothing to do about it. If I state I'm upset; he gets annoyed. A constant way of life here.

* * *

Finding today's newspaper, setting my bowl on the table, I arrange myself comfortably in my chair, paper open looking at the sports page first.

* * *

All I hear is the clicking of the keyboard and that man's slight breath.

* * *

My meal all done I continue reading and decide on some tea. 

Standing, bringing my bowl and spoon into the kitchen to wash, leaning up against the sink, Sherlock steps in, invading my space, pressing his body against mine.

Shit on this, he's too close. I'm tight against the counter, no room to move, his arms around my chest, pinning my arms close to me.

          "John," I hear a whisper near my ear, sudden wetness, his tongue licking my neck, my ear.

Shock reverberates through me.

          "What the hell?"

* * *

          "John," one leg moves my legs apart, and into the middle, his hardness is against my ass.

          "Get the fuck away from me, you bloody jerk."

I push him back, hard enough, his arms loosen around me, and I turn around to leave as he captures my arm, pulling me to him.

One arm around my waist, the other to my jaw, holding my head.

I'm struggling, kicking out, arms flailing, his hand on my face insistent in his intent to have me look at him.

          "Stop! You-"

* * *

He curves his head down to find my lips. His mouth assails me. 

My head tries to turn away; his fingers tighten to hold me in place.

Raping my mouth, as his tongue is unrelenting in thrusting against my lips, opening me, pushing, shoving in.

Whimpering, giving in, the shock replaced by a sensation of joy. He's kissing me! My tongue follows his example, prodding into his mouth, tasting.

* * *

His arm that was around me now locks with mine, down at our sides, fingers twined.

I briefly begin to panic, still trying to push away, less force, but also because I'm fucking hard now.

Sherlock's prick is lined up with my hip, pressing his need, his bulge against me.

* * *

His lips slide off my mouth, to my neck, biting tiny bits of skin.

* * *

And then, oh dear god, his free hand, it's on my PJ, sliding down to my swollen prick. My cock! Impossible! No! 

Thoughts drop out as he squeezes, strokes and I whimper, my head dropping onto his chest.

I can't hold back any longer. My moan is evidence of the need to come, my deep guttural sounds, as I stiffen, head now thrown back, my liquid spreading down my PJs and into his hand.

* * *

He lets go so quickly I lose my balance and hang on to the table, legs shaking. He's run, not walked to his room, and I hear the door slam.

* * *

My legs still not holding me I wait, my breath steadies. 

* * *

Upstairs to my room, shucking my wet bottoms, I put on pants and shirt, take my jacket off the coat rack, not looking around, and go out to the pub.

* * *

Have to think about what happened, while sitting with a pint on the table.

Sherlock assaulted me. It was almost a rape in a way. Why?

Did my strip act set him off? How did I contribute to it and why did I let it happen without much of a struggle. Shit, I got myself off so quickly!

* * *

I've had the chance to have sex with men before, but couldn't do it. It embarrassed me even to have the experience. 

One bloke in the army. He and I had an agreement that we would watch each other wank off. That was as close as I got.

* * *

Thank the fuck that the pub is around the corner from the flat, because I'm drunk.

Staggering into the loo at home to pee, I notice myself in the mirror.

Do I look different? The fact that my hair's mucked up, eyes red, and I feel shitty. And it's not from the drink.

Taking paracetamol and gulping down water, I strip off my clothes onto the floor and crawl under the blanket in bed.

* * *

I must have slept because the next thing I see is a strip of daylight from my window. Time to get up and shower. 

But...I had no dinner last night, and I'm starving.

I'll eat first. I decide to ignore whatever happened yesterday, stepping into a clean pair of PJs bottom, and I pick up last night's shirt to wear, but it smells of the liquor and smoke.

A T-shirt will do until I shower.

* * *

Sherlock is in the sitting room, dressing gown on and a pair of those tight black trousers. 

He ignores me as I say good morning automatically without thinking and get the same from him.

I grab some toast and tea and sit down in my chair.

Here I am, morning hardness going and I'm in my PJs.

* * *

Sherlock has seen me walk around in the morning, hard-on being apparent.

It once would have passed off as a common occurrence, but I'm very self-conscious about it now, placing my newspaper over my lap.

* * *

The camera is on the coffee table, and as if we both think the same thing, at the same time, Sherlock takes the camera in hand.

          "Sherlock, for god's sake, stop."

          "Last time, I need movements of you eating and sitting."

* * *

I let the git have his way, concealing myself by the paper.

With his free hand, leaning down he flicks the paper off my lap, moves my one leg apart from the other, exposing my bulge.

Closing that gap and using my hand to hide my bump, I holler, "I'm getting up, stop this right now, you son of a bitch," attempting to stand.

I can't; his body is touching my knees, with no room for me to get up without our bodies coming in close contact.

          "Sherlock, let me up or so help me God, I'll punch you in the fucking gut."

* * *

Disregarding me, he drops to his knees, one hand spreading my legs wide. 

The camera cast down on the floor. His one palm now sits on the fabric of my PJs where my prick lays.

          "No, you fuck, stop, I'm not a fucking toy. I'm not your experiment." 

Bending his fingers back with my hand he has to remove his hand from me.

* * *

I try to rise as he holds me firmly in place with his free hand on my chest, pushing me back into the chair, his other hand smoothing, stroking the cloth of my PJs.

          "Oh, oh, what the fucking hell. You're not going to let up; you shit head. Go ahead. Fuck, do what you want," my wording relegated to cursing.

* * *

I forget everything, let it go, my head going back, my ass leaving the chair, pushing into his fingers trailing on my covered prick. Each finger's wandering takes every sensation a step further.

          "Shit, shit, oh-."

Lifting, shaking,"I'm going-. I, oh-." as the wetness spreads, to my pants, and his hand.

He lingers, continuing my afterglow.

* * *

Getting up, again he leaves as before, no explanation, and I hear his door close.

* * *

Wiped out by my orgasm, by the sheer idea of this moment, I don't do anything. 

My brain fried, my body beginning to come down from the high he gave me.

Is he getting something from this? I haven't been able to figure out if he's in his room getting off.

Why am I allowing it?

He's a man; he's my flatmate, my best friend. He's a man.

* * *

The rest of the food forgotten I stand, go to the bathroom and shower.

* * *

Part of me has to admit that his hands, while not even directly on my prick had me coming faster and harder. It's better than me wanking alone.

* * *

What can I expect today? I leave work early, not many clients, finding no excuse to stay a while longer. 

I stop to get some scones and with dread walk up the steps to the flat.

* * *

Sherlock is not in the sitting room. And not, it seems at home at all.

That's good because I have no clue how to behave with him now.

I make a snack and text him to see if he wants me to cook or to do takeaway.

          _What do you want to eat, me to cook or takeaway_

          _How about Thai, okay with you? SH_

          _Good._

          _I'll be home by six. I'll pick up dinner SH_

* * *

He arrives right on the dot of six and with hands full of bags.

          "I bought the Thai and surprise; I have scones."

It's so seldom that Sherlock buys the food. Is he trying to make it up to me?

I laugh and hold up my bag from the bakery, "I stopped and got scones also."  
We're eating our food. Greg calls me. 

          "Greg, let me call back. I'm eating dinner," and hang up.

* * *

As we're eating Sherlock has a predatory look. Squinting, assessing me.

          "Okay, what do you want to know? Greg and I have planned a movie night, and it's one I know you won't like. Is that okay with your royal highness?"

My hand goes out to take another bite when Sherlock stands, his chair knocked over, sending me to stand up, looking at him, wondering what went wrong.

Is he that angry over my last statement?

Taking my chair out from me, advancing and pushing me with both hands on my chest backward. I end up against the closed door of the flat.

I'm getting angrier by the moment, fist tightening.

          "Sherlock, this is crazy, talk to me." 

I can't read him at all, is he angry, is he still experimenting? If he is why won't he let me in on it?

* * *

Hands still on my chest, his mouth at me, biting my lips, tongue insistent into my mouth.

My hands grasped by his, placed above my head holding me immobile. I want to fight, to cry out, but I begin to ignite with his heat against me.

* * *

I'm kissing him, my tongue trying to invade his mouth, but having to wrap around his tongue, he's insistent on his tongue staying.

One arm of his comes down, trailing through my hair, the other downs at my hip, the palm massaging.

Our legs twine around each other; his prick is on my thigh, shifting, changing position, shifting.

His breathing has elevated, his movements quicken.

* * *

My prick against his leg, finding friction, gyrating.

His tongue is trailing along the nape of my neck.

          "Damn, damn, ah-so close." 

My breaths are coming at an alarming rate.

* * *

His hands reach down, pull my zipper, my trousers, and pants down around my knees.

* * *

I don't want it any-. Can't happen. Can't touch me. 

When he does, all my senses trail down to those hands, smearing my pre-come on my cock, fingers running up and down, fisting lightly.

All of me, jittery, pushing into, upwards.

          "Sher-, yes-touch-fuck hell," closer,"now, gonna-" a few more strokes, come pulses out, my body raging with tremors, liquid over his hand.

* * *

He lets go, moves away and runs into his room shutting his door.

* * *

I sink to the floor on my knees, heaving with the pent-up desire that's still left. My legs won't let me rise. 

That's the best and quickest hand job I have ever had.

* * *

It takes moments for me to gather myself, go to the bathroom to clean up, shivering, destroyed by his kisses, his hand.

* * *

I lie on the bed thrown way off balance.

I've taken it for granted that Sherlock has never been affected by anything sexual.

And he isn't asking for anything. Only interested in taking making me come.

Then why the kissing? Why not go for my cock and wank me?

* * *

Then there's you, you joker, heterosexual? Yea, right! Boy, is he turning you on, to the point of losing your thinking to only him all day long.

You've dreamed of sucking him, haven't you? Especially on those mornings when you lie in bed, eyes closed, hands on your cock, vigorously pumping.

Okay, this is enough. I have to get to the bottom of this. I get up and down to his closed bedroom door, not caring if I wake him.

* * *

          "Sherlock, get out here. We need to talk."

Nothing. I bang on the door.

          "Sherlock, out. If I have to, I'll break the door down. Get out here you fucker, before I get mad and think of punching you out."

The door opens, and Sherlock can't meet my eyes, head down.

I notice all of a sudden how weary he looks.

          "Have you eaten or slept lately?"

I'm more concerned about what is happening internally, inside his head, to now think of me.

He won't answer.

          "Go sit down."

* * *

Even more strange is his listening to me, head down, not challenging.

Why? What has happened to him?

* * *

Walking to his chair he flops, head almost between his legs, still not reacting to me in any way.

* * *

I'm pacing the room, cant stay still.

          "What the fucking hell is going on? Why, in heavens name are you fucking with my brain?"

No answer.

* * *

          "Jesus Christ, say something, curse at me, but something. You're driving me batty. We'll stay up all night if we have to until you explain."

* * *

I pace around his chair, now so angry at his hangdog look. No, I will not feel sorry for him. 

Matter of fact, it's getting me more resentful. I'm his best friend, and if he won't open up to me, this has to be something deep.

* * *

My fist bangs on the top of his chair, he jumps, startled.

          "Will you fucking in hells, say something? You pull a fellow's dick and not explain? Am I a part of one of your shitting experiments? Is that all I am to you- an experiment, something to play with, to write about, to deduce?"

* * *

My voice raised, I have to stop shouting, or Mrs. Hudson, our landlady will come up to see what's wrong. He shakes his head no. Why won't he tell me?

* * *

          "Damn you to hell, you shithead," as I circle his chair, my fist clenched, my anger so great I stop and punch him in the face.

His hand goes to his nose where my fist landed. He doesn't cry out, and still sits quietly.

My anger calms down.

          "Damn I'm sorry, but tell me what you're doing and why?" handing him my handkerchief

* * *

          "You were going to leave me, and I can't have that," his quiet voice almost so low if I weren't halted right next to him I wouldn't have heard him.

          "I was going to what?"

Now I'm thrown off kilter. That doesn't make sense.

I sit in my chair, forward-leaning towards him.

* * *

He takes the handkerchief away from his nose. It's not bleeding, thank goodness.

          "You were going to leave me; I heard you say so."

Sucking in a deep breath, "you git, whatever made you think that?"

          "I heard you on your mobile explaining it to Greg"

Confusion crosses my face, laying back, shaking my head, my hands outstretched.

          "Wait, what did I tell Greg. Go into your mind and extract the exact words, because I never, never said I would leave you. Not to Greg or anyone"

* * *

          'Greg if I don't get sex I'll leave. Yea that's it, I'll leave. Got that now? That's the whole part of it. I would have liked it more with a change of pace, but you know how these things go. Yah, Greg, see you soon'.

His face screwed up as he recalls the statement.

* * *

          "Those were the exact words."

I have to stop and think about this, try to remember that conversation.

When it comes to me, I sit up straight, and bubbles of laughter issue from me.

          "You idiot, you fucking idiot."

I try to stop laughing long enough to reveal my discussion with Greg, and Sherlock's face is scrunched up.

Not understanding why the laughter.

          "I was quoting the words from a song that Greg couldn't remember. It was 'if I don't get sex I'll leave.'

Giggles stopping me from continuing.

          "It's about a man living with a woman, and she's stopped having sex with him, and he's ready to leave, thinking shes found someone else."

Laughing lingers, with me pointing my finger at the object of all of this stupidity.

* * *

          "And you thought I was talking about me? Having sex with you, are you kidding me?"

I sober up quickly, comprehension leaping in my brain as to how that sounded.

No, that's not how I meant it to sound. Okay, John, out with it now. You have no alternative but, to be honest.

* * *

          "I wouldn't mind, that is, it's all right if you and I-," stopping short before it gets any worse.

His head lifts up, he brightens, all the tension that was written on him is gone.

          "I thought I had to do something drastic."

          "Oh Sherlock, I'm not leaving."

          "Even with my sexual attacks on you?"

          "Even with-."

A peacefulness descends on the room at first. Apprehension tinges the air next. You can cut the air with a knife, as the saying goes.

Are we both having second thoughts? I am.

* * *

          "Sherlock-"

          "John-"

          "Sherlock, erm, yes, it was good. I have to concede."

          "Would you consider-"

The rest of the sentence unfinished, but enough left for me to pick up on it.

          "Even though you're a man? Yes, Sherlock, I would. But it must be mutual. And consensual."

          "Kiss me, John, kiss me the way you want it to be."

I crawl over to him on my knees, place my hands on his thighs and give him a gentle kiss.

The kisses turn into thrusting tongues and to his bedroom for more thrusting.

In the aftermath we lie there.

* * *

          "I forgot to ask. Was the camera part of this thought that I'd leave?"

          "No, that started as an experiment to understand the human body in motion."

          "Hmm, if it's kept private I would consider-"

Sherlock lifts his head in surprise and wonderment,"You would?"

          "Mutual and consensual," I answer.


End file.
